


They Might Be Giants

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Mixed Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wimbledon 2025.  Not many families can boast three Grand Slam winners in its midst.  But then, the Safin-Ferrero family is no ordinary family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Might Be Giants

  
BBC1 TV Commentary, Wimbledon Ladies Final, 5th July 2025  


>   
>  _…For the third time, it's match point. The atmosphere is electric; I don't think anyone here in Centre Court is breathing. This girl's been a breath of fresh air this week with her unorthodox style and exuberant grin—she has huge support from the crowd, even though she's playing an Englishwoman ….and that's it! She seals it in style, with her sixth ace of the match. Ana Laura Ferrero-Safin has defeated Rosie Henman 6-4 7-5 and is the 2025 Wimbledon Ladies Champion! …She looks stunned, as though she can't quite believe it. ….Almost in a daze she walks to the net to hug her opponent. …She shakes the umpire's hand and salutes the crowd. …She—it looks like she's looking for someone …she's running off to the end of the court …climbing up into a box …Oh, look at that, she's gone to hug her fathers. Marat Safin and Juan Carlos Ferrero look overwhelmed at their daughter's achievement. Of course, they are both Grand Slam champions themselves: Ferrero winning the French Open in 2003, and Safin the US Open in 2000 and the Australian in 2005. …and judging by Juan Carlos's sardonically raised eyebrow, his husband has just reminded him of this fact. …And there's Dinara Chiudinelli-Safina, Marat's sister—another former World Number one—with her husband and their son Niko, a junior karting champion: that's some achievement in that box! …And now Ana Laura's making her way back down to the court; it's time for the trophy ceremony to begin…_   
> 

  


~*~

  


~*~

Juan Carlos put the wine list down with a sigh.

'Can't you leave your phone alone for ten minutes, Feliciano? I'm sure your Castilla can manage without you for one night: we're celebrating our _own_ children.'

There was an uneasy silence at the table, and all eyes turned to Feli's BlackBerry. Feli's expression was scathing.

'Actually, I _am_ celebrating our children. I'm screencapping this.' He turned the phone round to show the Wimbledon Twitter page. 'It's not every week they all win at once.'

'Ah. In that case, I apologise,' although Juan Carlos did not look remotely repentant. 'Do we want red or white? Or both?'

The vote was unanimous for both. They were dining at The Ivy: Marat (overcome with magnanimity in the aftermath of Lalá's victory) had insisted that it was his treat, and no-one was going to turn down a free dinner. Fernando had grumbled that it was like a busman's holiday, and anyway, his restaurants were far more welcoming and less snooty, but his complaints had been shouted down.

David pushed his glasses up his nose as he looked up from the menu, and brushed a strand of hair from his face.

'It's amazing that they all did so well, no? Especially after Santi and Lola didn't speak to each other for six months last year. So much for the unbreakable bond of twins.'

'And over something so trivial as a hole in a t-shirt,' agreed Tommy. 'Never underestimate the wrath of an eighteen-year-old. I still can't understand why Lola got so worked up—it was only an old one that Marcel gave her, and Santi was trying to do her a favour by ironing it. I'll never understand girls. Boys aren't anywhere near as complicated.'

There was a pause as the waiter took their order, but once he had gone they started to compare notes on the transgressions of their daughters. Lola had run away on one of Tommy's horses at fourteen. She'd come back that evening when she realised she'd forgotten her pyjamas, but it had brought the riding school to a standstill for the day while they looked for her. At twelve, Sofia had decided that she wanted to be a hairdresser, and holed up in her bedroom with Fernando's hair products and a pair of scissors. When she emerged, her curls had been decimated, and those that remained were so full of goop that they'd practically had to shave her head. Five years later, she still had a ringlet behind her ear that she couldn't control.

Marat and Juan Carlos sat back and let Feli and David bicker about whose daughter had caused the most suffering. (Their sons, meanwhile, had apparently been no trouble whatsoever: Juan Carlos did not quite believe this, having been on the receiving end of several of Santi's pranks, but he let it slide and bided his time.) When they stopped to draw breath, he calmly interjected,

'Of course, there was that time that Lalá posted naked photographs of us on her Facebook.'

Having wiped Fernando's wine from his face, Juan Carlos went on to explain that they were only from the waist up, but they _were_ in bed, and it _was_ embarrassing, and they _did_ have to have a word with her about appropriate and inappropriate use of her camera.

'I'd got loads of comments from her friends,' Marat looked rueful. 'They all thought I was hot. It was such a shame he made her take them down.'

Fortunately, the waiter arrived with their orders before Marat could eulogise any further on the effects his half-naked body had on adolescent girls, and there were a few moments of satisfied silence as everyone sampled their food. David and Tommy still shared theirs, Juan Carlos noticed with wry amusement—but at least they no longer insisted on feeding each other. With six parents around the table, it was only a matter of time before the clichéd conversation openers were brought out. To Juan Carlos's surprise (he and Marat having made a bet that it would be David; he was by far the most deplorably sentimental of them) it was Fernando who succumbed.

'I can't believe they're all so grown up now. Where's the time gone—even Mateo's fifteen. I caught him on RedTube the other day; I'm not sure which of us was more embarrassed.'

'A good job, too,' Feli interjected firmly. 'He spends far too much time studying. What self-respecting teenager doesn't constantly think about sex?'

'Feli, you _still_ constantly think about sex, and you're forty-three,' Fernando chided gently.

'Yeah, well you weren't complaining the other night, not when we—,' a sharp cough from Fernando stopped Feli in his tracks, and David hurried to fill the ensuing silence.

'It's OK, Feli: Héctor's the same. He spends most of his spare time in the bookshop and he's only fourteen—actually, I don't know why I'm commiserating: I've done a good job with that one.'

David sounded smug, but Feli didn't look especially ameliorated and muttered something about boring teacher's pets. Tommy pulled an almost sulky face at David.

'Three children, and only Lola's shown any interest in helping me in the riding school. Héctor's scared of horses like you are, and Santi's been brainwashed by your brother and only talks about the academy.'

'I am not scared of horses! I just …feel more comfortable when they're at a distance, that's all.' Juan Carlos snorted, remembering the time David had 'phoned him in a fit of panic when he'd started dating Tommy because one of them had mistaken his hair for a hay net. David narrowed his eyes and returned his attentions to his plate, while Feli bemoaned the fact that no matter what he tried, Mateo didn't seem remotely interested in Real Madrid. Fernando suggested he was maybe trying too hard, whereas both David and Tommy insinuated that Mateo was actually showing great taste.

Their squabbling was interrupted by the arrival of the dessert menus. Fernando declined gracefully, although the effect was spoiled by Feli announcing to anyone who'd listen that his husband was dieting again. Tommy spent ten minutes trying to decide between the banoffee pie and the chocolate fudge cake, (until David said he didn't mind what he had, so if Tommy wanted to order both they could go halves), while Marat proclaimed that he was having one of everything. Juan Carlos poked Marat's (only slightly) expanded waistline, and murmured that some things never changed.

In the end, despite his determined refusal, Fernando ate half of Feli's strawberry pavlova. It was only on his fourth mouthful that he remembered what he'd been saying, and with his spoon waving perilously close to Feli's ear he continued,

'It just seems like forever since Mateo's first Christmas.'

'Oh, I remember that one!' David's grin was broad and he ignored the pointed look Juan Carlos made in his direction. 'That was the one where Juanca was Santa! That was amazing.'

'I've still never seen such a bad-tempered Father Christmas,' Feli smirked. 'I'm surprised he didn't traumatise Sofia for life. I still don't know to this day how Rafa talked him into it.'

'He played on my husband's generosity of spirit, that's what he did.' Under the table, Marat's hand found Juan Carlos's thigh. 'And I've never seen such a sexy Santa.'

There was a ripple of amusement around the table at the notion of his spirit being anything close to generous, but a glare from Juan Carlos soon quelled it. As the meal drew to a close, conversation turned to where they would go next. Feli and Marat were all for continuing the celebration in a club, but David wanted to go back to the hotel. His bookshop was due a delivery of rare first editions the following morning, and he wanted to be awake early to oversee it by telephone. Juan Carlos reminded Marat that they had an interview scheduled with the Telegraph for 10am, and gone were the days when he could party all night without severe suffering for the next twenty-four hours. (Tommy and Fernando declined to get involved.)

The argument went on, neither side backing down until Juan Carlos was struck by inspiration.

'In our capacity as French Open winners, David and I get the deciding vote,' he declared loftily (the wine really had been exceptionally good.)

Amidst protests from Feli that Marat had as many slams himself, and anyway, David's didn't count as Rafa had had the flu that year (which caused Tommy to bristle defensively), Marat was summarily dispatched to pay the bill. Feli announced that he and Fernando were going clubbing anyway, and sod the lot of them. David snuggled gratefully into Tommy and murmured something (quite possibly lascivious, knowing David) into his ear. Juan Carlos rolled his eyes at the lot of them, and went to hail a cab.

~*~

  


~*~

A week later, Juan Carlos sat on the terrace of Hotel Ferrero with Marat and a large pot of coffee. He'd closed the hotel for the week for their annual Davis Cup get-together, and it was now filled with ex-Armada and their collective progeny.

Down on the lawn, Lalá, Sofia and Lola were playing croquet. Ever since winning Wimbledon, Lalá had acquired a bee in her bonnet about all things English—she'd even forced them all to drink Pimms yesterday afternoon. Juan Carlos shuddered at the memory of the sickly stuff: the English had no discernible taste whatsoever. From the shrieks and giggles drifting in his direction, Juan Carlos suspected that it wasn't just the finer rules of croquet that were being discussed; it was probably a good job none of their fathers could hear the conversation.

Santi, Tommy, Feli and Fernando were (once again) involved in the perennial Clásico debate. Juan Carlos wondered how they didn't perish from boredom at rehashing the same tired arguments again and again, but it somehow came up every time. Still, while the debate was livening up, it still wasn't yet sufficiently heated to require waking Marat and sending him to break them up (although he might have to pinch Marat's nose, he was starting to snore a little.)

At the other end of the terrace, David, Héctor and Mateo had their noses buried in books. Juan Carlos smiled fondly at them. If he weren't so awfully comfortable he'd be tempted to creep over there and make them jump, or ask them if they would cook dinner; they got so engrossed when they read that they would agree to anything to make interruptions go away. It was so refreshing to see adolescent boys reading rather than playing endless video games, Juan Carlos thought, even if Lola and Sofia did tease them mercilessly for it and say they'd never get girlfriends. He supposed it was in the job description of big sisters; God knows his own had done the same to him.

Juan Carlos shifted his chair slightly, and leaned into his slumbering husband. Dozily, Marat mumbled something indistinguishable, put his arm around Juan Carlos and pulled him close. As he looked around him, Juan Carlos reflected that the Telegraph interviewer had got it right. His family _was_ unorthodox. But he wouldn't have them any other way.

~*FIN*~

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:**  
1\. The Wimbledon Twitter is real, but the content comes wholly from my imagination. The results may be awfully serendipitous, but they make me smile.  
2\. With the exception of the imaginary Armada babies, all the Wimbledon 2025 champions are real people.   
3\. The image used in the pretend-y interview is of Rossana de los Rios, taken from Daylife. I hope she doesn't mind too much.  
4\. Mark Hodgkinson _is_ tennis correspondent for The Telegraph. Needless to say, he had nothing to do with this interview.  
5\. _Nas pegadas dos gigantes_ is Portuguese for 'in the footsteps of giants'.


End file.
